


Solar Eclipse

by ardett



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, Homophobia, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, orthorexia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardett/pseuds/ardett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas can feel the sun burning in his chest, always aching to be brighter, to be more alive, but here, his father is the moon. And solar eclipses are never rare in this house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The strangest things, Thomas thinks, are the things easily forgotten.

His life should not be something that slips his mind with such ease. And yet, it happens nonetheless, day after meaningless day.

It’s because his life is in so much conflict with itself. Some things simply don’t compute and cancel each other out instead. But every so often, perspective snaps back into place.

Sometimes, this boy of wild popularity will open his locker and catch a hint of alcohol, it’s insidious fumes lingering in threads of his coat and backpack. Sometimes, this boy, worthy of honor classes, will find a stray poker chip, callously misplaced or lost by someone else, caught between between his homework papers. For a moment, his eyes will glaze over as he tries to connect the two until a friend playfully jostles his shoulders. The moment passes and the memories leave as quietly as dandelions puffs on the wind.

The life Thomas has built for himself in the safe confines of this school is nothing short of exemplary. He does everything with an ease of confidence that wins him everything. He’s got the looks to be popular, the friends to be unreachable and the ability to be in honors. To the popular belief, he is the perfect jock.

However, only when in brick walled rooms and crowded school buses, does he agree, because to him, this boy only exists as far as the worn tires of yellow metal take him. Once the journey ends, it’s like it never began and the boy he was before is impossibly far away, to far to be seen.

And what’s out of sight is out of mind.


	2. Monday

_ Monday _

When Thomas walks off the school bus, the first thing that hits him is the biting cold. It cuts into his flesh and through his veins and seems to smother that bit of warmth left in him from people calling his name in farewell. He shivers and wonders if everyone feels this cold when summer is still strangling along in early school months, even if he kind of knows that no one does, not even him because he was warm, burning with warmth, in school. What he really wants to know is if everyone returns to their house, never home, and feels this kind of cold, the one that doesn’t radiate from snow or wind but from the house itself, as cold as any winter night.

Only when the last memories of the ever perfect jock freeze over does he start towards the heart of the ice. No longer do any thoughts of popularity linger, the space taken up with responsibility and dread.

He needs to do his lab, which alone will take an hour, and he has to do his other homework as well, because he can’t let himself slip in these honor classes. He needs to stay on top of every subject because he can’t mess up what he’s worked for. Yeah, he’s a smart kid, naturally, easily, but things at home have been tough ever since his mom took an all day city job and it’s started to be a struggle for the first time ever. He adds studying for all his tests and maybe brushing up on his soccer and basketball before he has a big game and fuck, he’s so screwed.

Because today is Monday and his dad is bringing friends over.

Thomas wishes the doors in his house were quieter because as careful as he always is, it’s too loud and somehow, he’s always heard. The doorknob feels like a shard of ice, numbing him as he steps across the threshold and the Arctic is no match for the frost filled air in this place, but maybe just as desolate. How long does it take to freeze to death?

Too long, he decides, too long.

“Come in here, Thomas.” Or maybe not long enough because he swears, in that instant, his heart freezes. With fingers skimming the door frame and eyes full of trepidation, he looks into the next room and sees what he knew to expect, yet desperately wanted to miss.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Tables as round as the poker chips strewn across the top of them, the smell of alcohol as cloying as the scent of blood dried on the knuckles of his father, bottles of beer that glint with the same leer as the eyes of the men seated around the shaky, green topped wood, the tilt of their smiles seeming to devour every inch of his body. He wants to scream because he hates it and this is his ordinary.

“I-” How does anyone breath in air this cold and thin, speak when ice shrapnels pierce your lungs with every intake? “I have a lot of homework tonight,” And he almost says ‘dad’ at the end of the sentence but he can feel the stares on his skin and he just can’t. “So can I just go upstairs?” Because if he can make it to his room, he won’t be here, in the center of the blizzard. and if he’s not in view, he won’t stay in his father’s mind for long. He just wants to return to the warmth and in his room, he is the sun.

“No.” Here, his father is the moon. “Come in here, Thomas.” The order is louder this time, making him flinch. “Now.” And solar eclipses are never rare in this house.

-

The short sleeves he wears seem all too revealing without the constant weight of binders or a backpack to hide behind. Shivers creep through his body as he stands next to his father, a hand gripping one of the wooden rods on the back on the chair like that alone will keep him from falling when unstoppable tremors wrack him to the core.

One of the men’s eyes flicker over to him, this one blond and Thomas recognizes him, knows him but not his name. He never knows their names because he will always try to forget. “Was that a shiver, petit garçon? Il fait chaud aujourd’hui, n’est pas?” And perhaps it’s unreasonable that he took Spanish instead of French merely to avoid the things, the words, this man says, as demeaning as a catcall, but under current circumstances he can hardly agree. “Well?” The questioning tone is undeniable but, “Answer the question!” He can’t.

“I- I don’t speak-” The man is up and suddenly, Thomas could tell you the exact shade of his eyes, held close to his own, and he could tell you the shape of his fingernails, imprints of each pressed into his skin.

“En français, mon cher.” For once, a smile seems more threatening than anything else. “In French, my dear. Now let’s try again. I said, was that a shiver, little boy? It is hot today, is it not?” And he can’t find a single word and he thinks that this man knows this because he can practically hear it in the glittering entertainment in the eyes staring into his. The grip on his arm tightens and he starts to panic.

“Oui, yes, okay, yes!” The words tear from his lips, leaving behind clenched eyes and and ragged breaths. He feels rather than sees the man’s presence come closer, feels the breath on his ear with a violation that makes him cringe with tensed muscles.

“Tres bien, joli garçon.” Even after the man lets him go and sits down, attention refocused on the poker game on the table, Thomas still can’t get a full breath.

The winter season come, goes and returns in ever increasing length, hours marked by his father’s turn each round, days measured in the amount of cards thrown on the table, weeks passed in growls of defeat and months in sneers of success. By the end of the night, his father’s meager salary is half gone and Thomas has seen this happen before. It feels like with each coin lost, the air gets a little colder. Men begin to stand, chairs screeching on floor, pockets a little heavier and he thinks he might just be in the clear if he can avoid his father for the rest of the midnight hours because tonight wasn’t as bad as some. It was a foolish thought.

“I think I’d like a goodnight kiss.” His head snaps up and out of the corner of his eye, he sees his father look not at the man who said it, but directly at him. “He’s practically been teasing us, standing there this whole time, don’t you agree?” A murmur of assent runs through the air and he’s scared. They’ve never gone this far before.

Thomas starts backing away with shaky, uncertain steps. “I- I don’t want- “ Hands are suddenly on his shoulders, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt like sharpened teeth and his body goes rigid because it’s his father’s ring that’s pressing into his flesh. And he’s going to let them do this to him.

“Don’t fight with me, Thomas. Let them.” Fingers press farther into his skin, hard and bruising, and there’s nothing he can do but nod. He sees the money pass hands and he wonders how his mother would feel if she knew.

Disgusted, he thinks. Her and all his friends.

“So pretty.” His hands clench at empty air and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so small, surrounded by people who seem as immovable as mountains and just as impenetrable. Eyes widen, brilliant and terrified, and he can’t help but think that Teresa will be able to taste someone else on him.

But then there’s a hand over his mouth, forcing him to breath in the smell of alcohol and metallic coins and, “Not on his lips.”

“Ha.” A sardonic smile crosses the other man’s face. “Should have known you wouldn’t let us go all the way. Wanna keep him all to yourself, eh?” Thomas’s eyes squeeze shut just before he feels rough skin brush against his cheek. The process repeats and even though it’s not his mouth, there’s still a violation that chokes him and forced unheard whimpers back down his throat.

Thomas has a late night.

-

He’s awoken by something he can’t initially identify. It could have been the binder digging into his cheek bone or the aching way he had fallen asleep but it’s not as he hasn’t done that before. This is something different.

His unfinished homework glares at him as he tugs at dark strands of hair, letting out a low groan. The pencil sways back and forth in his hand for a moment until it drops down onto the bedside table, exhaustion forcing Thomas’s head back into his crossed arms.

He can’t do this. He’s never going to make it past this grade.

He jerks awake violently and this time, he can tell exactly what it is. His doorknob shakes again, creating a metal jangling, followed by a sound even more discordant in the silence. The muffled noise of a voice clouded with alcohol.

“Unlock the damn door, Thomas.” The words slur, almost unrecognizable, but this too has happened before. It’s as familiar as the threats that accompany it. “I swear to God, Thomas, you’re going to regret this in the morning.” He’s standing now, arms wrapped protectively around himself and it’s stupid, he thinks, to be this afraid when he knows his father will still be suffering from hangover when he leaves for school. “I’m not going to do anything to you. I just want to see you. Your mom’s not coming home tonight and I’m lonely. So open the door and we can talk.”

“Dad.” His hand skims the door, his forehead pressing into the wood as he sighs almost silently. “You’re drunk. Please just go to bed.” Thomas jumps back with a cry, nearly falling as the door shakes under the shock of a fist hitting it.

“I’ll break down this fucking door if you don’t open it!” His breath catches and it seems an impossibly long time before he can breathe, before his father leaves him alone with only a harsh mutter of, “Fucking fag.”

Finally, after a long minute of staring at the flimsy, wooden door, he allows himself to sink into the sheets of his bed. The heels of his hands dig into his eyes as he forces down tears and he doesn’t sleep again that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment on how relationships should progress? Right now there's a Thomas/Teresa thing going on but I'm not really writing that for a reason, it kind of just is? It fits a bit more fluidly in the story but I do ship Thomas/Newt way more so maybe I'll just incorporate internalized homophobia? Advice?  
> (And hit me up on [Tumblr](http://ardett.tumblr.com/%20html/)!)


	3. Tuesday

_ Tuesday _

That morning, it’s warm. He can feel the spring breeze, a breath of warmth on his skin when he walks downstairs and it follows him outside. In times like this, he knows he’s a creature of heat. The heat grows as he nears the school and for the first time since yesterday, he can feel the summer, in all its blazing glory.

Life changes and he wonders how the boy at home could possibly exist within him when he feels as if the moon would burn beside him. Everything here has as ease to it, a way that lets him flow from class to class, person to person, and it makes it so easy to forget and he wants to forget. So he let’s the feeling, the burning heat, sweep over him, drown him in the sun’s scorching core and he sees winter turn to ash. And for the moment, he believes the illusion.

Minho greets him in their shared math class before sitting down heavily next to him. Thomas watches a wince crease Minho’s face as he shifts his leg. Now that he’s looking for it, he sees the staggering limp in the other boy’s gait, too familiar to be shrugged off. It’s not the first time Minho has overworked himself until sore muscles become sprained ones. Last time, Thomas had told the coach about it and Minho had been benched for a week. He remembers fighting with the other boy during that time when he found out Minho was ignoring the insistence of rest. It had been their worst fight to date, ending with Minho screaming that,  _ “You don’t understand, Thomas!”  _ and Thomas screaming it right back. He’s not sure anything has changed since then except he’s learned to keep quiet. 

(The guilt still rests in his stomach though, weighing him down and dimming his glow.)

From class to class, everything and nothing sticks. Then, lunch comes with brown paper bags and crowded tables, binders dropped in another class and even though everyone is so tightly packed, he can still breath easier. It’s over so much faster than he would have thought possible and soon, he and the others are herded out of the cafeteria and sent off to respective classes.

In gym, Thomas feels a bit more in his element because, if nothing else, he can at least save face with some athletic prowess. On the other hand, he’s not quite so desperate to see Teresa. He tries to make it work, really, he does, but he thinks she can tell he’s doesn’t feel the way he’s supposed to. It’s not obvious but he notices the way she subtly pushes him away. He counts himself lucky that neither of them has had the nerve to break up with the other yet. The last thing he needs his dad knowing is that calling his son a fag isn’t far from the truth.

Thomas’s locker clicks and opens with a loud clang, relatively unheard among the other noises of shoes slamming against the floor and voices raised over others. He pulls his hoodie off, followed by his shirt and his shoulder aches just barely. His hands twist in the fabric of a black t-shirt, arms moving to raise it over his head before,

“How’d you get those?” The Nike check on his shirt flashes fluorescent white in the light, still poised above him as he turns.

“W-what?” Confusion stutters the words out of him. A boy blinks at him with wide eyes, like he hadn’t expected to be responded to.

“Well, you know, those bruises.” The other boy rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, long fingers catching in blond tufts. “I thought popular kids weren’t supposed to get beat up.” He says, coupling the words with uneasy laughter. 

Thomas follows the gaze of the blond to his shoulder and hisses a curse under his breath. Stained in burgundy red and the darkest purple, it spreads under his skin, bruises shaped like fingers where blood only breaks the surface in crescent shaped cuts. The words roll off his tongue automatically. 

“I’m fine. Didn’t even notice it.”

“Well, that’s not really the point.” The forced smile falters visibly on the other boy’s face. “How’d someone get ahold of you long enough to leave a mark like that anyway? Aren’t you the reigning track champion or something?”

Thomas shrugs his shirt on and tries to come up with an answer while ignoring the stare still pressing into his wound. “Look, we’re gonna be late and it’s nothing.”

“Right, okay, forget I said anything then.” Thomas can see a flush crawling up the neck of the other boy. “Don’t why I mentioned it at all, I’m sure you didn’t need advice from someone like me.”

“Someone like you?”

The other’s face splotches red. “Well, you know. You’re kind of.... I mean, everyone knows who you are. You’re like, super popular. And I’m…. not. Do you even know my name?” There’s an awkward silence where Thomas desperately scrambles for an answer yet again. “Yeah, just forget it. It’s fine, really, don’t stress about it.” 

“Out of the locker room, boys!” The other boy practically runs out of the room. 

While they do pushups on the gym floor, he makes small talk with Teresa and wonders if the blond boy can tell it’s just to distract himself from the ache of going up and the pain of going down.

When they reenter the locker room, the blond’s eyes stay fixed on the walls and Thomas doesn’t bring it up. Their silence is lost in the sounds of others.

-

It nags on him all day, the name of the boy just on the edge of his consciousness. At least he remembers traces of him now. He’s intelligent, in all the same honors courses Thomas is in, but quiet. He’s one of those kids everyone knows is smart but who only ever raises their hand when no one else knows the answer. Dimly, Thomas recalls little bits of him, like Minho copying his homework and him sketching in the back of the classroom. Thomas almost feels that the boy’s name is something weird, like Lizard or Salamander, but that seems incredibly rude to accidentally call him that if he’s wrong.

He’s still thinking about it as he walks to soccer practice when he hears a familiar voice from the around the corner.

“Oh, shuck off, Gally. Don’t a shank.”

“I’m the shank? Mr.Popular Boy Thomas didn’t even know your name. Correct me if I’m wrong but don’t you share half your classes or something? Who the shuck cares if he’s got a bruise? At least a little rough treatment might knock him down a few pegs.”

“Well, I care. And you can’t just say stuff like that, Gally. You don’t even know him.”

“Yeah, and he doesn’t even remember your name. He’s already forgotten about you, guarantee it. Don’t get your hopes up just because he gave you a pity response.”

Thomas rounds the corner and he sees the blond boy’s eyes go wide. The boy hits Gally’s shoulder, hissing, “Gally, shut up right now.”Gally turns, expression turning to a glower as he sees Thomas.

Thomas manages to stutter out a few nonsensical words before Gally leaves in a storm of angry muttering, prompted by the blond’s hard stare. Then, they’re alone.

“Sorry I didn’t remember your name.” Thomas finally breathes out.

“No, no, it’s really not a big deal, seriously, Thomas.” The other’s fingers twist nervously but it immediately stops when he notices Thomas looking. He hides his hands behind his back as he continues. “This is so awkward… How much did you hear? Actually, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know. I’m sure you have to get to practice or whatever, so I’ll just stop taking up your time.”

“Wait!” Thomas calls after the retreating boy, “Tell me your name at least. I’ve been trying to remember all day and I… I want to talk again some time.” He cringes at how the words sound out loud but the other answers with smile, a small one but one nonetheless.

“It’s Newt.”

-

When he gets home, the air is crisp with fall chill, not quite the bitter winter cold. He breathes deeply, knowing that his father’s friends never come two days in a row, probably due to hangovers. The air, however, still smells of alcohol and smoke, a thick layer over everything, choking his lungs. With his father passed out on the couch and another bottle of beer spilled on the floor around him, Thomas makes it out unscathed that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three cheers for Newt, amirite?  
> Also, cred to [Latch_is_what_I_want_to_be_called](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Latch_is_what_I_want_to_be_called/pseuds/Latch_is_what_I_want_to_be_called) for helping me formalize some ideas in the comments of the last chapter!


	4. Wednesday

_ Wednesday _

The next day is much the same as the last. Thomas quietly asks Minho if he iced his leg and Minho snarls a,  _ “Yes,” _ before changing the subject.

“So why were you late to yesterday’s practice?”

“Oh, I was talking to Newt. You know, he has science with us, sits in the back.” Thomas’s voice trails off as Minho’s eyebrows quirk.

“That kid? What, he try to hit on you or something?”

“What?” He tenses, fingers clenching around his pencil. “Why would you say that?”

Minho leans closer, smirking slightly. “Well, he used to do track, right? Apparently he was one of the best on the team until he hurt his leg real bad, still limps and everything. Rumor says that it was his boyfriend.”

Thomas feels sick. With an effort, he swallows and rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans. “That’s not funny, Minho.”

“Whatever man.” The other boy backs away, smile falling off his face. “It’s just a rumor anyway.”

-

In the back of the room, Newt sits with a sketch pad, one hand locked in his blond hair, the other holding his writing utensil. His pencil goes between tracing his lips absentmindedly and scrawling lines messily on the paper. Thomas watches him, his own study hall work left forgotten on his desk. Absorbed in his art, there’s something incredibly alluring about Newt and it makes Thomas feel both warm and scared inside. It makes him feel like the sun again, with a heart made of fire instead of blood. But if he is the sun, then Newt is the stars, equally radiant, encouraging him to burn brighter, and also impossibly far away. A whole universe away.

Teresa lurks at the back of his mind, a black hole that calls for the easy oblivious oblivion. All he has to do is look away and everything would stay the same.  _ Everything would stay the same. _

He stands up.

Every step gets a little easier until finally he’s sitting in the seat in front of Newt. The other glances up, muttering a, “one second,” and looking back down before visibly double taking as his head jerks back up. “Hello…. Thomas.”

“Hey,” Thomas actually feels the blush working its way across his cheekbones but he’s resolute now. He’s doing this. “So I was wondering…” His nerve falters. “What you were drawing?” He bites the inside of his cheek, holding back a groan of self disappointment.

“Oh, um, you know.” Newt’s hands cover the page, long fingers curling over the top to hide the sketched lines. “This and that.”

“Can I see?”

Newt’s eyes dart down to the pad, now raised up so Thomas can’t quite see over the top, and then back to Thomas himself. “Um, no.” Thomas’s shoulders droop, expression turning to crushed. “But I’ll show you some other ones, if you want.” The blond quickly amends.

The commentary on various drawings continues through the rest of the period. Some are bursting with light, boys spinning in fields of flowers, others full of fantasy, witches with massive hats and boys wielding green fire. Thomas catches glimpses of the ones Newt skips. They’re covered in reds and blacks and purples and blues. (They remind Thomas of his bruises.)

The ringing bell startles them both and as they rush to throw their things together, Thomas rushes out his question. "Can I have your number?"

Newt's mouth opens just barely in surprise. Then his expression cracks into an eye crinkling smile. "Yeah, yeah definitely."

The wrinkled scrap of sketch paper feels like a miniature star in Thomas's pocket for a long while before that warmth too begins to fade. A heavy weight starts to grow in his chest, like a scream he can’t release, and it stays with him all through soccer practice until he boards the bus. The closer he gets to his house, the more he loses the person he was before and everything from school fades into the trivial. He knows they’ll be back.

-

Frost crawls through his fingers, ever approaching closer to his heart. He stands in silence as the game’s intensity increases, the end nearing. It’s an easier night than some, with the players engrossed in the lusterless poker chips on the table instead of him. It’s not over yet, of course. Sometimes it seems that it never is.

When the game ends, Thomas thinks that maybe this will be it tonight. It only takes a gesture to change his mind. 

His father waves a hand in his direction and grumbles, “Fine, do whatever you want to him.” It takes a few seconds for it to set in that this time, they weren’t just betting on money. Now it's too late to escape, surrounded as he is by men double his weight. Not that he would have tried. He's far too used to this, too set in this routine to remember that there's such a thing as a lunar eclipse.

Now,” This man’s voice is deeper than his father’s, with eyes many shades darker than his own. “Your daddy said we couldn’t have too much fun with you but…” The man glances around at the others, mouth twitching into a smile. “I think we have a few ideas. First, that shirt has to go, right boys?”

“W-what?” Thomas’s fingers dig into this sides and he can’t decide if he’s afraid or just numb.

“Your shirt, take it off.” 

His hands tremble, making it hard to grasp the hem of his shirt. The motion of pulling it over his head is shaky and uncertain. He holds it in front of him for moment, hiding behind it before it’s snatched away, pulling a tiny cry from him as it’s thrown on the ground.

“Hands down.” Another jeers and the action of forcing his hands to his sides seems to take physical effort. He may be used to locker rooms and gazes at school but there was always warmth in those looks. These stares are harsh and they smother the fire barely kindling in his chest.

It’s so cold it hurts.

By now Thomas has lost track of which man won the poker game, which man ripped his shirt away, which man jeered and ordered, so he’s not sure who tells him what to do next in a command of, “Give us a little show of those muscles. Let’s see some push-ups.”

The man has a knowing glint in his eye as Thomas swallows and kneels on the ground, eyes burning with his cheeks.

His arms flex as he pushes away from the floor, faint outlines on his chest becoming more defined as he lowers. He’s on his sixteenth when he feels a pressure between his shoulder blades, the rubber sole of a shoe increasing its weight as he tries to push back up. Another man leans down next to him, mouth close to his ear as a rough whisper comes out. “Try harder.” Thomas grits his teeth and forces his body to repeat the action again.

At twenty-five, his breaths start coming out in stunted hisses and his chest jumps everytime he tries to breathe deeply. Under the pressure that gets heavier in every movement up and down, his arms start to shake and his hands lose their grip on the floor with sweaty palms.

“I c-can’t do a-anymore.” He arms lock in an upwards position, shaking more violently as he barely gets the words out.

“Did I say you could stop?” The growl is dangerously low. When he doesn’t answer, a hand grabs his hair and pulls up, forcing him to make eye contact. “I said, did I say you could stop?”

“No.” Even as a whisper, the strain in his voice is loud and clear.

“Then keep going.” His head drops, neck aching as he’s released. The added tension on his arms mounts, trembling uncontrollable now through his whole body.

He’s pushed back down and he feels himself crumble. His arms give out and his shoulder hits the floor hard, pain jolting into him as he holds back a groan. The sound of his labored breathing and the pounding of blood in his ears drowns out the next thing someone says. The only warning comes as a blur as a hardened boot aims for his stomach. As an automatic reaction, his hands shoot up, taking the brunt of the impact as it smashes into his palms before another kick stabs into his back, shoe digging into flesh. The scream that escapes his lips is unheard, everything in him too weak to sustain it.

“Hey!” One voice thunders above the others as a hand hauls Thomas to his feet. “Didn’t I say not to leave marks?” His shirt, wrinkled and dirty, is shoved back into his hand as a push sends him staggering backwards. “Leave, Thomas. Go to your room.” He stumbles the first few steps before he runs up the stairs, only hearing the first part of his father’s angry tirade. “You know what will happen to us if someone finds out-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long to update! Don't know why but I've been on this weird concentrating defect for like, a week, and I haven't been able to just sit down and get anything done. Bleh


	5. Thursday

_ Thursday _

Spring lingers today, taking longer to warm into summer. For now, Thomas tries to take warmth from the stars around him, the other distant stars.

“Hey, Thomas!” Newt grins at him as he turns. The boy’s hair is disheveled blond, like he ran his hand through it too many times, and his smile is tinged with nervousness, but it’s mostly sunny and shining. Thomas can’t stop the matching smile warming his own face as Newt bumps shoulders with him. He resists the urge to grab the other boy’s hand, a lifetime of suppression winning over, but he stares. (He’ll deny anyone who says his expression is lovesick.) “You have a game later, right? Maybe I should come and see you play.”

“Yeah, I mean, if you want. That’d be, um,” _ Fantastic? Amazing? Sweet of you, I think you’re adorable, please come?  _ “Really cool. If you can make it. Obviously.”

His own awkward laugh is covered by Newt’s genuine one. "Course I'll come! Watching isn't the same as playing but it's still fun."

"Did you used to play?" Thomas's eyes flicker over to Newt and in his scrutiny, he catches the blond cringe silently.

"A little, I'm sure I wasn't very good. I was on the school team until-"

Suddenly, Minho's brash voice cuts through the hallway. "Until your boyfriend shanked up your leg, right?” 

Minho’s arm lands heavily on Thomas’s shoulder and Thomas feels strangely like he’s being claimed. He shrugs Minho off, turning to face him angrily. (He doesn’t look at Newt’s face, he’ll face Minho before he faces that.) “What the hell’s your problem, Minho?”

The black haired boy’s expression is startled, making it clear he hadn’t been expecting Thomas to stand against him. Then, his eyes turn predatory. “Why are you sticking up for him? He’s just a stupid fag, he’s nothing!”

“Don’t call him that!” Thomas feels his fists clench involuntarily because he knows how Minho feels, that’s always been obvious, but it still stings. He’s built up a resistance to these kinds of comments, so offhanded and cutting, but being with Newt was starting to kindle self acceptance in his chest. Now Minho’s cruelty hurts more than it used too, more than he wants it to.

“What do you want me to call him then? A dirty, lying little shank who can’t stay out of other people's’ lives?” There’s a vicious mean streak in Minho’s voice, one that Thomas is all too familiar with, but there’s another undertone, something that screams that this is personal.

A bitter scream from Newt holds Thomas in the middle of something he’s realizing now that he doesn’t understand. “I’m the liar? You know how I got this limp, you know it wasn’t Alby! I trusted you, I was trying to get you help and you turned everyone against me! You’re the only one hiding anything!”

Minho’s gaze lingers on Thomas too long. “No, I’m not.” He says snarls before walking pushing them.

Thomas watches him go, eyes wide with fear and shock, before he looks back at Newt. Heavy breaths shake the blond boy's body and his jaw twitches like he's holding back words or screams. Thomas starts to feel the cold traces of terror working their way through his bloodstream. Confusion clouds his reason; always, always more lies from everyone, from himself, too terrified to face the truth, too scared to ask for honesty. 

He raises a hand as if to place it on Newt's shoulder, opens his mouth as if to speak, but the cold of winter freezes him there. If he asks what happened between Newt and Minho, will he be asked what secret he hides? It's still too early for the sun to thaw the ice and there is nothing Thomas finds himself able to say.

Newt doesn’t look back as he leaves Thomas behind.

-

He’s there. In the stands across from the bench, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, Newt’s there. He’s sitting with Gally but he still gives a small wave to Thomas and this time, Thomas doesn’t need to hide the flush on his cheeks with the guise of exertion on his side. 

At 5:30, the game ends with cheers and jumps and pumped fists. It had been close the whole game but that just made the victory all the more exciting. The happiness is infectious and Thomas can’t stop grinning and in the moment, he misses Newt leaving quietly but today, today nothing can touch him and it doesn’t hurt. Not yet.

By 5:45, only a few stragglers are left on the steps outside the school. He’d gotten caught up in a conversation with Aris about the game and it’s not until the coach walks over, checking that they both have rides, that he looks at his phone. The glow of a screen shines off his cheekbones and the smile falls of his face.

Messages fill the screen, every one from his father, and with every text he reads, the air gets a little colder. In seconds, it’s far below freezing.

_ ‘Where are you?’ _

_ ‘Come home now.’ _

_ ‘You think you don’t have to answer me?’ _

_ ‘Don’t keep us waiting, Thomas.’ _

_ ‘There will be consequences.’ _

_ ‘You have to come home eventually.’ _

His breath catches in his throat and he can’t breathe. He can’t remember the last time he was this scared, made worse by his certainty that he was safe tonight, that he wouldn’t have to go through everything that happens tonight. If his dad was bad on most nights, ones where he was angry where infinitely, infinitely worse. He has no heart left in his chest.

“Did you text your parents?” The nudge from Aris almost knocks his phone out of his hand and his voice struggles out with a stutter as he tries to answer.

“Y-yeah, I have to go.” He cringes as he hears the shaking in his voice, obvious and audible.

“Go where? Your parents aren’t picking you up?”

“They…” His hand clenches and unclenches as he searches for an excuse, anything, anything. (He’s such a liar, why can’t he just tell someone, anyone?) “My dad wants me to meet him somewhere.”

“Do you need a ride, or someone to walk with you? My mom will be here soon, we could drive you.” There’s confusion in Aris’s eyes and Thomas isn’t doing this right.

“No.” There’s an empty pause where an explanation should present itself. It doesn’t.

“Are you sure?” The tone changes, just barely, just a little off and a little odd and a little too curious. His own eyes close as he forces the words through his teeth.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I always am.” And then he leaves, footsteps echoing over the sound of unanswered questions.

-

As 6:00 turns into 7, Thomas feels the fear weighing heavier and heavier on his mind, far colder than the frost seeping from the park bench into his skin. He can’t bring himself to move, a sun half hidden behind the moon, the other half by clouds. It’s dark outside and in, terribly, heart stoppingly dark. There is nothing but right now, in this darkness, alone in this darkness, safe in this cold, cold darkness.

A sudden ringing makes him flinch, shivers making it hard to hold his phone in a firm grasp as he fumbles it out of his pocket. Minho’s name glows on his screen.

_ ‘Where are you?’ _

That’s it, that’s all it says. Nothing of today’s events; it’s both invalidating and reassuring. He doesn’t really know why he doesn’t hesitate before he answers. It’s just… If he can’t trust Minho, who can he trust, even with all that’s happened between them, now and in the past. Especially because of all that’s happened.

_ ‘The park, why?’ _

_ ‘Your dad texted me, said he was looking for you. Why weren’t you home already?’ _

For a second, he just stares at the screen before a sick feeling starts to rise in his throat. He holds a hand over his mouth, trying to gather enough air. He wastes precious time trying to breathe.

“Thomas!” He whips around, recognizing the voice but not the uncontrollable anger. Even in that one word, Thomas can hear that the usual restraint is gone, the way his father held the others at bay is no more. Something in him finally clicks into full survival, adrenaline-rush panic and then he’s not really in control.

He’s on his feet, heart skipping too many beats as he realizes his vision has been rendered near useless in the night, a lit screen imprinted on his eyes. He can’t see where they’re coming from. He can’t see them coming.

He holds his breath, unable to hear anything over the sound of his hyperventilating. The whisper of barely raised voices comes from his left and by now, he can see the shadowy shapes of men. In his glance, he counts seven.

There won’t be a fight, there never is, and so Thomas does what he always does. He runs.

He runs, feet never staying on the ground long enough to stumble as everything starts to blur, partly from clouded eyes and partly from reckless speed. The footsteps pounding on the ground behind urge him faster and it only occurs to him now that he’s heading deeper into the park, farther and farther from where anyone will hear him scream. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to do, trying to escape but to where? With every ragged, painful intake of breath, he knows he can stay ahead of them for only a short time before long strides and sheer numbers overwhelm him. And then he doesn’t know what will happen.

His legs starts to burn and he’s not sure if he’s imagining the feeling of breath on his neck but his heart is beginning to fail him too, too frail and afraid and exhausted and frozen for this. His eyes dart behind him for only a second as he veers into the woods, throwing everything into a last burst of speed. Fingertips graze his arm, almost catching a grip, before they’re replaced with the sharp hands of trees and bushes, thorny, hard, and unforgiving.

Branches tear at his skin, leaving gashes that he’s sure would leave a trail of blood if it wasn’t too dark to see. Hearing has become the only true sense in play. And that thought makes him stop. The noise of breaking wood and low growls of annoyance jerk through him, pleading with him to run. It takes every ounce of will for him to sink down next to a tree, feeling the bark crumble against his palms, and he wonders if it really is black enough in the sky to hide him.

It should be because, after all, no sun is bright enough to be seen during a solar eclipse.

When the first footfalls pass him, he feels like he can’t breathe, in part because his heart is beating so fast and in part because he’s actually holding his breath, every exhale resounding louder in his ears, loud enough for anyone to hear, louder than anything. The second man walks behind him and his throat feels dry, his chest hollow. His fingers twitch as a voice yells, sounding closer than ever, and his mind fights for him to get as far away as possible.

“Wait!” All sound in the wood ceases. “Can anyone still hear him?” His eyes squeeze shut, as if that can block out the responses to his father’s question.

“I thought he was right in front of us.”

“Did he get away?”

“No, he couldn’t have. We were too close to him.”

“So do you propose he just disappeared?” His father’s snarl rings above the others. “Did a little boy outsmart you?”

“Maybe he’s hiding?” Uncertainty colors the tone, followed by a curse as the most familiar voice bounces off the trees, intensity increasing every time.

“Then find him!”

He sees the barest outline of boots travel directly in front of him and he thinks that maybe they’ll give up because it seems like they really can’t see him. A few more minutes, if he can just do this a few more minutes. Something, a phone, dings and someone realizes before him that it’s his phone because before he reacts, it’s already too late.

Hands grab his shirt and the collar chokes him as he’s pulled up. As his phone drops to the floor, the glaring message catches his eye.

_ ‘Did your dad find you?’ _

That’s the last thing he sees before he’s forced to meet his father’s eyes, so unbearably cold and looking almost… unstable. “You’d think you’d learn, wouldn’t you, Thomas?”

This is the first time he can remember screaming at the first punch.

\- 

Everything hurts, painful and scarring, scratches from pointed branches and metal rings, broken bones and bruised skin, bloody from fists pounding into him. The tears running down his cheeks feels like daggers slashing gouges into the skin, every breath pushes against torn lungs and a throat ravaged by screams and even the sheets feel like they’re wove with barbed wire, clawing at him as sleep taunts him. Something in him is frozen and it numbs him, numbs every emotion, every thought, except the pain.

His door creaks, someone’s shadow in the frame, and he bolts upright. The fear overwhelms the pain shooting through him, it’s going to happen again, it’s going to happen again, he’d rather die than go through it again. 

(What is he still living for, anyway?)

“Thomas?” The voice radiates through his body, warmer than anything he can remember, and a sob rips through him from relief.

“Mom?” She sits gently on his bed, a hand touching his face softly.

“I missed you, Tom.” Even as he leans into her palm, he can’t stop himself from asking the question.

“Where have you been?” Her hand leaves his skin, a cold imprint left on his cheek as she sighs, taking his hand instead.

“Just my job. The commute back here is long, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” He whispers, trying to mask a defeated voice. She gets angry when he acts unhappy and he doesn’t want that. He can’t handle that right now.  There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, eyes lifting up to meet hers. “Are you leaving again?”

“Yes.” She looks more distant than ever and Thomas can’t shake the feeling that sometimes he’s closer to her when she’s away than when she’s here. “You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” She kisses his forehead, a burning brand left upon contact. “Go to bed, Tom.” He watches her walk to the door, closing it behind her as she breathes out, “Goodbye.”

He falls asleep wondering why his mom would say goodbye instead of goodnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...Much... Stress  
> But anyway,  
> Kind of a long time between chapters this time, my bad. Much typing, much rewriting, much time, you know. So how's about the drama in this chapter? I love writing arguments, they're the most fun (and writing fluff makes me cringe, sorry, I don't know). Yes, there is something going on with Minho and Newt, yes, it's more than just Minho being a bullying jock, and yes, I'm sorry for making Minho a total jerk. He'll probably get better. Probably.  
> Whew.


	6. Friday

_ Friday _

In the morning, he almost misses the bus because he forgets to compensate for having to put cover up on all his new bruises and cuts. He tries not to think about it but even when he can’t see them, he can feel them aching under his skin.

As he arrives at school, he sees Minho coming towards him. He tenses, unsure of what terms they consider themselves on. For a second, they face each in silence. Thomas shifts uncomfortably and unconsciously cringes as his backpack presses into his wounds. Minho notices and Thomas knows because he sees those eyes get a little colder.

“If you don’t ask,” Minho says in a monotone, “I won’t tell.”

If you don’t ask ( _ don’t ask about yesterday, don’t ask about Newt, don’t ask about what he meant, don’t ask about me _ ), I won’t tell ( _ I won’t tell everyone about the bruises on you, I won’t tell anyone where they’re coming from, I won’t tell that your dad a drunk and that your mom has abandoned you, I won’t tell them you’re weak _ ).

It’s what they’ve always done, pretending that they don’t know, as if that will protect them. It’s been an unsaid kept secret between them because it’s better this way, better if no one knows and the ones who do keep quiet about it. Minho will pretend that he doesn’t see the bruises and wounds and Thomas will pretend that he doesn’t know that Minho runs three miles every morning and two in the afternoon. Then he’ll keep lying about why he isn’t going home and Minho will keep starving himself. Same old, same old, same pretending, same lying as always.

After Newt though, Thomas felt a shift. That too he’s been hiding but he’s felt it in his bones and in his veins, things growing warmer and brighter and changing. Newt is so beautiful in a way he can’t explain. It has something to do with his smiles, which are real and blinding and so much more than the smirks and clenched teeth smiles he wears. It’s because of how comfortable he is with himself, how comfortable he is even without anyone there to validate him, while Thomas is constantly, constantly trying to figure out how to be what people want him to be, what he should be to stay safe. It’s how Newt is so full of life and aggression and passion and emotion and Thomas is a being of suppression and fear. He’s just been experiencing everything Newt is over and over and he wants to be like that, doesn’t to lose himself to that cold ignorance and complacency again. He wants to stay brighter, warmer, safer, more powerful than he was letting himself be. 

He wants to be the sun.

(Never again.)

“I know you’re obsessed with exercising and losing weight. I know you don’t eat enough. I know you tell people you just do it to stay in shape. I know it’s more than that. I know you’re killing yourself.” Thomas says, voice neither quiet or loud. Minho stares at him and Thomas can see his pupils unfocus like he’s become disconnected from reality. 

Then, Minho’s eyes narrow as he bares his teeth. Minho’s hand slams down on the locker next to his face and they’re so close that Thomas can hear every hissed whisper. “And I know you pretend you’re strong and popular and then you go home and let your dad beat you up. I know you think you’re into boys but you’re too scared of your dad and everyone else to do anything about it. I know you’re too afraid of him to make anything change. I know you would let him kill you.” Minho leans closer. “What difference does it make?”

“How can you say that?” A few people look in their direction as his voice gets louder, as he gets louder. “How can you just stand there and let this happen? We can’t just keep doing this to each other, we can’t just pretend it’s not happening, we can’t just ourselves die because we’re too afraid to face each other!”

“You’re a coward, Thomas! You don’t have the guts to change anything! You can’t even face yourself!” Their shouts are echoing down the hall, people are gaping at them openly but he has to do this, _ he has to do this _ . (Doesn’t he?)

“I’m gay and my dad is abusive and I need someone to help me!” Thomas screams. 

The world stops burning and starts freezing.

Everyone is staring, staring at him, he can’t believe he just said that, why did he say that, what is his dad going to do to him, he’s shaking, everything is shaking, there’s ringing in his ears, his heart is pounding, he can’t breathe, his dad is going to kill him, this time his dad will kill him.

Someone’s hands on are his shoulders and Minho’s face flashes in and out of focus. “Thomas, Thomas, look at me!” The other’s voice blares and sounds like panic and fear. “Breathe, okay! Breathe!”

He can’t, he’s trying and all he’s getting are these shuddering gasps and people are coming closer and he has to get away. He runs, slamming a door behind him and locking it, hearing a hand hit the wood only a second later and Minho is still yelling his name. He glimpses himself in the mirror and he lashes out and there’s blood and glass everywhere and a shard cutting into his hand and slashing his wrists and he can’t stop,  _ never again, never again, never again, he can’t let it happen to him again, he’d rather die now.  _

There’s so much blood, coating the reflective glass and seeping under the door. He can hear curses muffled from the wood. He’s getting colder and colder.

“Thomas, open the door!”

His mind is stuck in a loop of never again, he can’t keep doing this, never again, never again, something has to change, he’s going to get killed, never again. He’s distracted though by the warmth of the air and the heat of his blood but he has this weird cold feeling creeping out from his heart and that’s all that seems to matter.

“This is all your fault!” Minho sounds like he’s crying, screaming and crying. 

“Tommy, you have to open the door!” Thomas presses his hands, trembling hands, against his ears, trying to block out Newt’s voice. It’s too loud, too sharp, too piercing.

“He’s going to kill himself because of you! You couldn't just leave it alone, could you, Newt? We were fine! He didn’t need your help!”

“Shut up, Minho! Just shut up! You don’t know anything, you and your shucking orthorexia, you can’t even save yourself! Damn it, I’m not doing this with you again!” Newt’s voice is quieter now and Thomas squeezes his eyes shut. “Please, Tommy, you have to open the door. Please.  _ Please _ .”

Thomas can just make out Minho sobbing in the background. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Over and over. He doesn’t know who the litany is directed at but he feels his heart jerk in his chest.

The lock clicks. The door flies opens.

He sees the blood drain from Newt’s face as he slides back down to the floor, letting the numb haze pull him under. He’s so tired (and scared, still so, so scared).

Minho’s next to him. His eyes are stained bloodshot and red is soaking into the knees of his pants. He’s saying something and his hand shakes over Thomas’s own scarlet arms. “You’re going to live, okay?”

He can’t keep his eyes open. Everything is exhausting. “I don’t want to keep doing this. What difference does it make, right?” His own voice is so quiet that he almost can’t hear it. Minho looks stricken and he’s crying again and shaking his head and Thomas can’t remember the last time he saw Minho cry like this.

“It will make all the difference.” A hand gripes his own, almost too tight, and Newt’s eyes are hard. “Everything will change, but first you have to stay awake. You have to live through this and you have to fight, Tommy! You have to stay with us.”

He doesn’t remember what happens after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels suspiciously shorter than usual....  
> So this is probably the last chapter before the epilogue, hence the climaxing in this chapter. I may have horribly overused repetition and parentheses but you know, artistic license. Explanations will finally appear, yes!  
> Also, why do italics not paste into Archive? Very annoying...


	7. Epilogue

When Thomas wakes up, he smells alcohol. He doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t want to see his house. It’s too dark, too cold.

“Thomas? Thomas, are you awake?” It’s not a voice he recognizes, distinctly female. 

His eyes snap open and close almost as fast. There’s white everywhere, bright and blinding. Eyelids flutter, adjusting as he tries to speak. “W-where am I?”

“The hospital, Thomas.” The women comes into focus before the words do. And then everything sweeps over him at once, the scent of sterilizing alcohol, the IV pinned into his skin and he can see, he can feel, the stitches covering his forearms.

He doesn’t realize he’s hyperventilating until the doctor says, “Calm down, Thomas. Take some deep breaths.”

“I don’t think my dad can afford this.”

“Don’t worry about that now. Deep breaths, Thomas.” She checks his vitals on the screen besides him while he shudders in a few inhales. “There’s just a few things we need to talk to you about. If you feel ready, I’ll get the others now.” The white sheets twist around his fingers as he nods. 

She leaves and the last resolve in Thomas starts to crumble. He can’t really call it sadness, or even fear. It’s deeper than that, colder than that, like the feeling he gets when he been lying in the snow for too long. It’s numb and colorless, sapping his energy like a sickness. It scares him that he can’t name it.

Another woman walks into the room, closing the door with one hand while the other holds a notepad. She’s all warm colored clothing and reddened cheeks, as if that will make him more comfortable. It feels too intentional to dampen his unease.

“Hi, Thomas.” She smiles and Thomas wants to seal away everything he knows before it’s pried from him. “I’m here to ask you a couple questions, just answer them as best you can, alright?”

“Okay.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“I think so.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I opened the door…” His pulse pounds.

“Yes?”

“Minho was there and he was talking to me. And…” He swallows. “Newt was there. After that, I don’t remember anything.”

“Alright, sweetie.” He cringes. Nothing feels alright. “Could you tell me about those cuts on your arm?” Unintentionally, he curls into himself, becoming a little more compacted. 

“What about them?”

“How did you get them, sweetheart? Do you remember?”

“I…” His eyes fix on the sheets. They burn like twin stars. “I did them.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“I…” He starts before the pressure on his chest suffocates him. 

The words aren’t there. He can’t say it. He has to say it but he can’t, why can’t he say it? It’s right there, all he has to do is say it but his father’s fist is wrapped around his throat, his father’s hand is over his mouth. What will keep him safe? What will put him in the ground? (He can’t be saved, he can’t be saved, he can’t save himself, he’s already tried to do that and they stopped him, why did they try to stop him?)

“Thomas?” The woman is staring at him and his hand stills on his forearm where it had been scratching at the stitches holding his skin together. 

“C-can I pass?”

“This is very important, Thomas. I know this is hard for you but we want to help you. One of your friends said you were talking about your dad before you hurt yourself. Did that have anything to do with it?”

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. They’re going to send him back to his dad, they have to, and if his dad finds out that he said anything, he’ll kill him. If he already knows- “I pass.” He can’t finish the thought, he can’t think straight. 

“Look, Thomas. Minho told us everything he knows. You need to tell us if your father is abusing you. If you don’t give us something to work with, we’re going to be forced to call your father. Legally, he is still your guardian and we can’t withhold you from him unless we have reason to believe he will harm you.”

His voice is stuck in his throat and he can feel his hands shaking even as he hides them under the sheets. He’s spent so long in silence that he knows nothing else. Nothing else? Didn’t he swear to himself he would change this, that he would never let this happen again? (Never again, didn’t he say never again?) It feels harder than before though because everything’s died out. His anger, his passion, his determination, his fire, his life, they’ve all faded in the cold of isolation. He’s all alone right now and everything looks darker. 

His gravity isn’t strong enough, he’s falling apart and bringing everyone down with him. It’s his fault, it’s his fault that he’s not telling people, that he hasn’t told people before it escalated to this. If it’s his fault, why can’t he say something, if it’s only him who’s stopping himself, why doesn’t he tell them? (He can feel bruises forming under his father’s fists, he can feel his blood welling up under his father’s nails, oh god, he’ll kill him.)

It’s too much and he- “I can’t.” He has to. “I can’t.” He’s sobbing now. “I can’t.” Never again. “I can’t go back, he’ll hurt me. He’ll kill me.”

“Who, Thomas?”

“My dad. He hurts me. When him and his friends drink, they get violent and-” He gasps. “I can’t stop them. I can’t go back.”

“And you won’t have to. Thank you, Thomas.”

(He can still feel his hands trembling even after she’s gone.)

-

He doesn’t know how to feel. It’s like he’s a supernova, both a black hole in the making and an explosion of impossible heat, losing and finding himself. He’s still in shock when his door opens again.

“Tommy!” Newt’s eyes are soft, though his voice is lively. “You look pretty well, considering.” 

Thomas is blinking the daze out of his eyes when he sees Minho come in behind Newt, quieter than the blond like guilt has dampened his footsteps. Even Minho’s voice sounds timid when he speaks, arms hugged across his chest while Newt has already claimed a bedside chair to lounge in. “Hey, Thomas. How do you feel?”

For an awkward second, Thomas nods in answer as a response before he blinks again, still half stuck in his head. “I’m… I’m alright, I guess.” He doesn’t miss both of their eyes dart to his stitched arms.

“You don’t mind us being here, do you Tommy?” Newt says. “The doctors said they were making an exception for us, even though we’re not family, but if you don’t want us here-”

“No, no, I just…” Thomas looks Minho, then at his hands, then back at Minho. This time, he holds the other boy’s gaze. “I told them, Minho.”

Immediately, he gets a rise out of the other boy. Minho’s face is astonished and his hands grip the end of the bed frame rigidly. “Oh my god, Thomas! Are you- Oh my god, this is good, right? This is what you wanted, right?”

“I think so, but…” Thomas closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry, he’s done that enough. “Is it wrong I’m still afraid to lose him? I mean, he’s an alcoholic, he’s been hurting me for years, he calls me a fag every other day,” Out of the corner of his eyes, Thomas sees Newt flinch. “So why is it still so hard for me to… to do this!”

“Oh, Tommy…” Newt’s hand is grasping his and even though part of him is trying to deny any feelings he has, he returns the contact.

“Thomas, I know,” Minho takes a deep breath, finally taking a seat of the other side of Thomas’s bed. “I know that you know that I have a problem. And I’ve been afraid to face it for a really long time, before you and me became friends. I didn’t let myself believe there was something wrong, even while I was blacking out from exhaustion and I was constantly dizzy because I wasn’t eating. The first person who forced me to face it was Newt.” Minho’s leg bounces up and down and his fingers tap erratic rhythms on his knee, betraying the effort this is costing him. “He confronted me about, said I was orthorexic and that I needed help before I hurt myself permanently. And I-” He breathes out hard. “I started spreading rumors about him, basically outed him to the entire school and when he jumped, I told everyone that it was Alby who messed up his leg. I don’t know, I was just so afraid of changing-”

“Jumped?” Thomas quietly questions. Newt’s nails scratch the back of his hand as Minho fumbles for words.

“I- you-” Minho looks to Newt, startled. “You didn’t tell him?”

Newt smiles but it looks like a cringe. “Nope. But now is as good a time as any, I suppose.” Unlike Minho’s darting eyes, Newt’s gaze stays locked on Thomas. “So you’ve got half the story. It was getting pretty bad, I guess, especially at soccer practice and in the locker rooms. Those kinds of jocks don’t take very kindly to a gay boy, right? And, you know, they were getting in my head so I was getting depressed and such.” Newt doesn’t have Minho’s nervous ticks but his cheeks redden and his hand grasps Thomas’s tighter. “And one day I jumped off a building. I called Minho before I did it to apologize. I think I said something real messed up, like “Get some help before you end up like me,” or something but it ended up that he found me with my leg broken. He called an ambulance, I was hospitalized for a little, they put me on medication for depression. Then I quit soccer and stuck to myself for a while before I was able to come to terms with everything. It got better, I got better. Life goes on, you know? So here we are.” 

Thomas braces himself even as he asks, “So did you know? About my dad?”

“Honestly? I knew it was an option but I thought it was some other kids who were beating you up or you just got into lots of fights. You were so popular, it was hard to imagine that your life being anything other than perfect. And I thought that there had to be people around you who knew something I didn’t, so I assumed it wasn’t serious.”

“I guess that’s the way I wanted it.” Thomas says before Minho interrupts him.

“Or is it the way I forced you to want it?” Minho looks at the ground, guilt creased in his face. “I should have been there to help you. I knew, Thomas, and you knew that I knew, and I just ignored you! You would come to school with bruises, hell, I could see circles under your eyes almost every day, and I didn’t say anything! I didn’t even ask if you were alright! I was a shucking coward!”

Miraculously, Newt  _ laughs _ . “Guess we’re all cowards then. I tried to kill myself, you couldn’t help your friend, Thomas stayed silent too long. What’s changed?”

A smile, a forbidden smile, twitches on Thomas’s lips. “We’ve changed. You’re still here. I told you and Minho about my dad, really, properly told you.”

“And I’m going to go to therapy, I think. It’s time to change, right?” Minho adds quietly, returning a small smile to Thomas’s grin.

“One more thing I think we need to work on.” Newt leans over Thomas and before he can blink, Newt is kissing him. It feels strange because Newt’s grinning like crazy and it’s feels hot like sunshine on his skin and it just makes him want to beam back. They pull apart and Newt says a little breathlessly, “Your self-acceptance.”

And then they’re all laughing, the three of them together, and Thomas feels brighter and brighter. And the sun, it burns brighter and brighter in the sky, brighter and brighter inside him and he knows it will never go out again.

End. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends the tale.  
> I wrote this story so long ago and now I feel as if it's evolved so much. I think a lot of this is due to the input from the people in the comments, support from kudos and even the unnamed readers, who give writers a reason to share their work. So thank you all for taking the time to read this story, I do sincerely hope you liked it. (Perhaps it even changed something in you.)  
> Until next time, forgotten sovereigns.  
> Be your own sun.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this literally forever ago and am now reprising it Maze Runner style, whew, should be fun.


End file.
